


Pedagogy

by DriftingGlass



Series: The Afterschool Library Chronicle [1]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Aged-Up Gon Freecs/Killua Zoldyck, Alternate Universe - High School, Awkwardness, Best Friends, Crushes, Drama, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gon Being Flirty, High School, Humor, Killua Being Oblivious, Killua Tutors Gon, M/M, Mutual Pining, Possessive Gon Freecs, Protectiveness, Sexual Tension, Teen Romance, Tutoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-15 03:51:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10549608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DriftingGlass/pseuds/DriftingGlass
Summary: [ Pedagogy - "the method and practice of teaching, especially as an academic subject or theoretical concept." ]"Are you coming to the game on Saturday?”The last question rings just enough to rattle the cluttered headspace that Killua Zoldyck would normally refer to as his brain, but not enough to yank him out of the realm of his twelve-page, single-spaced research paper on the process of literary deconstruction.- in which Killua is responsible for tutoring Gon, and both are oblivious idiots. Told in parts. -





	1. The Usual Shenanigans

_The process of deconstruction focuses on the arbitrary relationship between the word and the object it represents—_

“Look at this cool trick I can do with my tongue! It—oh, um, I’ll go get that really fast—”

 _—in which I’ve compared the protagonist and antagonist in William Golding’s_ Lord of the Flies to—

“Killua, I’m really struggling with this… geometry, stuff…”

_—Of course, it’s ridiculous to assume that all characters in the text would act like this in the given situation. Being stranded on an island doesn’t have a lot of perks—_

“You’re good at science, too, right? You could help me with that!”

_—the relationship between Simon and Ralph is purely coincidentally formed when referred to the text and the nonsensical way they’ve created a rivalry—_

“Are you coming to the game on Saturday?”

The last question rings just enough to rattle the cluttered headspace that Killua Zoldyck would normally refer to as his _brain_ , but not enough to yank him out of the realm of his twelve-page, _single-spaced_ research paper on the process of literary deconstruction.

Until he realizes that the only person in his vicinity is still flapping his lips.

His hand pauses over the current sentence on page 5, the tip of his pencil just barely scratching a line beneath another tripped spelling error that he should’ve noticed before printing the entire thing out. He clicks his tongue, blinks, and slowly lifts his gaze to that of one of few people who manage to drive his irritation up the wall, out the window, and all the way up the fucking peak of Mt. Fucking Everest.

“What?” Killua asks, one eyebrow risen, skeptical beyond belief. He keeps his voice low while the librarian walks through the area, casting her hawk glare over their shoulders onto their assignments and watching the ancient MS-DOS computer screens light up with green text. The students around them are tapping on their touchscreen phones, gossiping, blowing bubblegum wads into balloons and spitting them unceremoniously onto the ground afterwards and it’s distracting Killua’s jungle gym mind to no end—

“I asked,” continues Gon Freecss, flashing a notoriously whimsical array of pearly whites, “if you were coming to the game on Saturday night.” He shrugs off his letterman jacket, his toned, slender form and broader shoulders clearly defined beneath the collared, white button-up token shirt of their uniforms.

Gon has never struck Killua as a stereotypical form of anything, even with his appearance as a first-level indicator. Gon radiates strength and athleticism and wears nature like an extra layer of cologne. Skin just the right shade of olive and nose dusted with freckles. Untamable brown (almost black but not quite, Killua always notes) sometimes prompting his friends—and Killua especially—to call him “Porcupine” despite the fact that it’s considered a fashionable statement. His eyes burn topaz with competitive fire and soften into liquid pools of amber when he tenderly rejects suitors in the school hallways but offers to take them out “platonically” anyway.

He is a mass of contradictions and has been poking and prodding Killua’s normal bubble of solitude for months, now, after Bisky Krueger slapped them together as a studying pair. Despite Gon’s popularity and plethora of student-swooning smirks stored up his sleeve, he’s a horrible student. And he always attempts to bother Killua’s crash-course trains of thought when he has the chance.

And he’s especially talkative today. Apparently.

“Think we’ve been over this before,” says Killua pointedly, sighing with a quick tap of his pencil on Gon’s math homework. “Never gone to a game. Never will.” He can’t even consider the prospect with the idea of his slick older brother leaning over his shoulder to check if his grades are always fucking sterling platinum scraps of perfection— 

“How come?” asks Gon, and for once he seems honestly curious. And focused. Hm. 

Killua leans back into his chair. “I already can hardly handle hanging out with you for six hours a week, Gon.” He shrugs. “Don’t know why me not going to a game is such a hard concept for you to grasp.”

Gon’s lips twitch, as if he’s about to laugh, but he suppresses it with a mocking grin. Amusement shines in those eyes. “Oh Killua, you _wound_ me,” he says, pounding his chest with his fist and curling his lips into a stupid _pout_ , for Christ’s sake. “And here I thought we were friends!”

Killua snorts. “I’m tutoring you. Don’t see how those are the same thing.”

He would be lying though if he didn’t love the way he and Gon drifted off into bunny trail conversations against his will, with the athlete cracking jokes about his hair color or finding some way to bribe him with chocolate to go on a walk with him when he was bored. Seeing the idiot has become a staple of Killua’s weekly routine: acing tests, studying until his brain combusts with crossed wires, writing and writing and _writing_ and reading and reading and _reading_ until the universe decides to consume him whole… and then, the library after school, where he sits contemplatively and works on his homework until Gon asks him a random question—usually _not_ about his homework—and the two of them do enough work to somewhat pass the level of focus and practice that Bisky Krueger, the school counselor, expects of them.

But seeing Gon outside of the library? Outside of their odd _acquaintanceship_ in the library? The student body would bat too many eyelashes to count. As would his family.

“Killua? Earth to Killua? You’re zoning out again…”

Killua shakes his head, desperately ignoring the flush creeping up the nape of his neck. “Right. Sorry. Um.” He inwardly rolls his eyes at his own lack of focus. “Geometry homework. Right. You should show me what you have so far. I can look at it—”

“Killua.” Gon quirks an eyebrow, but the frown overtaking his lips is one of pure seriousness. Killua sits still at this observation, unsure how to process the intensity behind that stare and the way Gon is leaning closer across the table, scrutinizing him with every ounce of focus he never once puts into his schoolwork. Damn him. “You’re always studying and worrying yourself sick over what you have done and stuff, but you’re the smartest person I know! I bet, if half the people we know studied half—no, a _third_ as hard as you, they would be accepted into, I dunno, maybe half of the top ten colleges around!”

Killua is not one to accept flattery, but those incredibly honest thoughts coming from _this idiot_ of all fucking people is sending shivers up his spine for God only knows what reason. He swallows and ducks his head slightly to avoid Gon’s stare, and grins. “Good to know working with fractions has helped.”

Gon slumps and actually scowls, and Killua bites down onto his tongue to prevent himself from breaking into a fit of laughter. It takes an alarming amount of self-control to do so, but he’ll manage.

“ _Killua_ , you know that’s not what I meant!” Gon rests his chin in the upturned palm of his hand, drifting off into a plane of thought Killua doesn’t have access to. It’s never easy reeling Gon back into focusing on his work when he goes off into tangents like this. “I’m saying that you can blow off one night of studying to come to the game, right?”

The Zoldyck, once again, _snorts_. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“Well, you’ve mentioned your family is really strict about that sort of thing, but still—”

“Gon, I’m a Zoldyck.”

Gon’s brow furrows. “And?”

Killua nearly snaps his pencil with the force of pressing it into his paper. He locks eyes with Gon and decides he’s not going to convince this idiot he’s been tutoring for a couple months of anything unless he plays the game.

“Why are you acting like you’ve never heard of this before?” Killua blinks when Gon stares at him with that totally blank expression he only gives off when he’s truly lost in a subject. Usually it concerns algebraic formulae or trying to remember the last five squares in the periodic table. But, no, this curiosity and lack of understanding is about something else entirely that nearly the entire student body is aware of. “Gon, you can’t be serious.”

Gon Freecss is an idiot, but he’s not ignorant. If anything, his astute skills of observation can be surprisingly perceptive, showing a depth to his intelligence and total lack of attention span that screams answers to Killua when they’re struggling figuring out a certain problem.

“I’ve heard the rumors,” mutters Gon, sighing, “but I don’t think they’re true.”

A spurring of butterflies rises in Killua’s chest. He suppresses it quickly, but cannot stop the scarlet hue staining his porcelain cheeks. He knows Gon can see it, because the idiot is still staring at him out of pure bafflement. It’s all the more embarrassing.

“What makes you think they’re not?” Killua scowls.

Gon shrugs, smiling broadly once more. “Because I know Killua, and Killua is an entirely different person from the one people gossip about.” His eyes darken for a moment, as if he’s aware of something that Killua is not, but it disappears in a flash and the white-haired valedictorian is convinced that it probably never happened. “Please come to the game, Killua?”

Killua finally sets aside his pencil and folds his hands beneath his chin. The paper sits beneath him, scrawled with the corrections of his own writing, and his mind is directed into twelve different scenarios almost instantly, picturing what could possibly go wrong at the basketball game.

He hates social situations. He craves his solitude, gigantic headphones concealing him from the world and showering him with either the playlist consisting of concertos from Beethoven and Mozart to the hard metal alternative rock he desperately hides from his parents. He keeps his distance from other students and never instigates conversation because he knows exactly what they think, and he’s always content walking on his lonesome and biting into his crust-less sandwiches during lunch period when all the other students do is talk about sex, popularity and drugs.

Gon is offering something he’s never even considered.

Part of him wants an excuse to drive his parents insane and to make Illumi spontaneously combust if he ever hears about his Brainiac, goody-two-shoes little brother bailing on an intense one-on-one study session on Saturday to go to a basketball game of all things.

“I’ll think about it,” Killua finally says, and he nearly squeaks out of shock when Gon practically jumps out of his chair and pumps his fist into the air. “ _Gon_ , quiet down, you idiot! This is the library!”

Gon flushes and sits back down, but the excitement is still there, and Killua has no clue as to why he’s suddenly beaming so brightly. “Saturday, for sure, then.”

“Oi, I said I’ll _think_ about it,” says Killua, “I didn’t promise anything.” He holds back an amused grin at Gon’s childish pout, but he knows he has the upper hand now, so he’ll keep grasping the chain. “However, if you managed to get me, say, maybe… five, limited edition Katzo Supreme Chocolate Bars, maybe, just maybe, I’ll consider coming to your stupid game and _socializing_.”

Gon does not even hesitate with the challenge: “Deal!” He then blinks, frowning. “Killua, those chocolate bars…”

Killua scowls. “You just agreed! Don’t think of backing out of it, now—”

“Those are horrible for you! You could die eating too many of those in one sitting! Or at least, get really sick…”

His tutor brushes this off with a shrug. “I can only binge on those stupid things when my parents and older brother aren’t home. If they ever catch me eating something aside from some vegan gluten-free nonsense, they’ll flip the house over.” He snickers at the thought of his mother frantically searching his room for the fabled chocolate bars he keeps in stashes in certain locations that he’s always sure his parents will never find. He has two stashes hidden on school grounds, alone. “So, technically I eat healthy against my will about seventy percent of the time.”

By the way Gon’s brow furrows, Killua can tell his acquaintance can hardly believe him, but he seems satisfied with it anyway. “Well, okay, if you say so.” He shrugs.

“And you’re not getting out of finishing your geometry, Gon,” drawls Killua, rolling his eyes. “I know you try to distract me all the time but you’re not nearly as successful as you think you are.”

He expects Gon to scoff at this and attempt to perform another trick with whatever plastic utensil he has left over from lunch or pencil and pen he has in his backpack, but he doesn’t even move to do so. This is the normal case, and Killua’s predictions are almost always accurate, but the slight mischievous glint to Gon’s honey-brown eyes are nearly paralyzing and irritatingly electric with how they stun Killua to a moment of silence.

“If you say so, Killua,” mutters Gon, but the way he’s looking at Killua is so unfamiliar and unusual, and the other isn’t sure how to process it. “Hey, let’s go get ice cream!”

And just like that, the spell is broken. Somewhat.

Killua’s shoulders roll back and he forces himself to relax. _Calm down._ “Seriously, Freecss?” He smirks despite himself, however, and the idea of buying a cone of something preferably chocolate and smothered in fudge sounds immediately appealing. “You still have to get your homework done.”

Gon snorts. “I know, but, we could do it somewhere else! And eat ice cream.”

“Gon—”

“My treat?” Gon asks, almost desperately, and Killua absolutely detests the way his organs melt at the sight of his acquaintance so pitiful. “Come on, _Kill-u-a_. Homework is transportable!”

His tutor flicks Gon’s forehead, and the jock releases a squeak of surprise before he can stop himself.

“Fine. But only if you’re buying.”

Gon grins victoriously, and it’s that same smile that burns Killua to the core for reasons he still cannot find answers to. And each day it drives him even more and more up the wall.


	2. Stirring the Pot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killua goes to the game. Big surprise. Some developments occur that these two goofballs aren't totally sure about...

There wasn’t anything particularly incredible or appealing about the small town of Haverforth. Exactly ten coffee shops with middle-aged baristas, two libraries, six knickknack stores and a hidden underground arrangement of drugstores and pawn shops kept the miniscule city alive. However, it was not breathing in this oily air that drove each student to sulk up the steps to Haverforth High School every day, as Killua would often remind himself.

The star-studded students, the cream of the crop, that happened to graduate from the heaping cesspool usually headed straight for the top universities in the country, none of them straying too far from the beautiful and vastly opportunistic Yorknew City. Yorknew University, in particular, was an aspirational goal for the students who bothered caring enough, the ones who crushed their cigarettes under their shoes before even giving a second thought of smoking. Athletic scholarships were just as prominent in Yorknew as they were anywhere else, though special privileges were granted to the best students and athletes who exceeded all expectations in neighboring educational facilities.

The Haverforth Hawks were, easily, the most impressive aspect of his high school, and by the time Killua is a freshman cleaning out his locker of stuffed toilet paper and taunting photographs, he realizes that there is hardly anything he wants to admire about this dreadful place.

Promptly slipping his hands into his pockets, Killua waits outside the gymnasium, watching a plethora of chatting, mesmerized students stroll into the area with streamers and bags of concealed alcohol. Normally he’s not around here on Saturday nights, though he’d rather skip his nightly lectures with his older brother than remain locked in his house. The thought of dolling over the notes in his backpack at this moment almost forces him to pivot his heel and turn around, but he made a promise.

 _Ugh. I can’t believe he actually fell through with_ it, he thinks, rolling his eyes. He stares as the doors to the gymnasium open, two teenagers practically devouring each other as they seek privacy in the shadows around the corner. Huh. Interesting location.

Gon wouldn’t have asked him to go to one of these games if it hadn’t meant something to him. Regardless of their new acquaintanceship, Killua had been rather flattered to be invited to anything at all. With the previous years of his reputation as a loner bombarding him, he’d often wondered if that would ever change. He’s attached to the image crafted of him, of someone blending into the background and listening to music, somehow achieving the top grades of his class and never creasing a single wrinkle into the collar of his uniform shirt.

He hears the scuffling of tennis shoes, the bouncing rumble of students his age screaming to the top of their lungs and clapping.

Sweat breaks onto his arms. He snorts. _Chill, Killua._

He swallows, ignores the steady thumping of his heart, and casually walks forward. He ignores the dreaded, jelly weight growing in his knees.

* * *

The bleachers are what Killua’s eyes are drawn to first. He’s not sure why—they’re bright periwinkle, hideously disfigured in shade, and now being stomped on eagerly by hundreds of Haverforth Hawk enthusiasts. He recognizes some of these faces, even though most of them are slathered in the dark green and gold of the team they’re cheering for. The striking crimson and white colors of the opposing team—the Reedwood Fire Ants—fill up more than half of the stadium.

He blinks. Immediately, he feels as if all eyes are turned towards him, scrutinizing his incredibly plain outfit by comparison. The black jeans, gray button-up and cream overlaying sweater seem too formal for this occasion, and the unsureness creeps up his neck and startles him before he turns away from some of the onlookers and onto the gym floor.

He’s already forgotten how tall most of the basketball team is. He clicks his tongue and turns back to the bleachers, where he spots a vacant spot near the top level. Ignoring the strange whispers buzzing around him, he strides up the steps and takes his seat. His hand instinctively flies to his phone, where the screen glows blue with at least a dozen text messages.

“What the…?” He rolls his eyes. It might be Illumi. Though, that bastard never bothers sending him messages. He usually just shows up to wherever he’s gone off to, though Illumi would never suspect that his brother was at a basketball game.

A blinding white flash blurs his vision.

“Say cheese!”

Killua’s eye twitches. He suppresses a snarl and turns to the stranger—some teen probably a year or so younger with a buzz-cut brunette hairdo and too-big doe eyes—and grips his phone with a vice-like capacity. “Oi, what the hell was that for?”

The boy flushes instantly, apparently already quite ashamed for taking a simple photograph. Killua recoils, suddenly self-conscious of how loud he’d been, and turns away from the photographer, cursing at one particular detail he hadn’t noticed before.

_He’s on the yearbook committee. Of course._

He’d done whatever he could to avoid any possible contact with the yearbook since his freshman year. As a junior, without a single photograph of his scowling face printed in those stupid things, he knew he was on the right track.

“S-Sorry, normally people are really excited to be in the yearbook… especially at the game.”

Killua sighs. _Wow, Killua. You’re such an asshole._ He clears his throat and turns back to the teen, ignoring the coil of guilt in his chest. “Sorry. About snapping at you.” He pockets his phone and shrugs. “Not used to being startled like that.”

“Oh, it’s okay!” the teen beams, and a ridiculous smile the size of a dinner platter stretches across his face and betrays any sense of intensity. Something brews within those dark brown depths, and Killua can tell there is a shadow, a peek of a darker strength dwelling in those irises that very few have probably seen. “I’m Zushi!”

He holds his hand out to him. Killua slowly takes it. Even with the drowning chorus of pumping fists and excited screams cascading around them, Killua can easily zero in on Zushi’s features, on the details of his mannerisms and how carefully put together he is. Still, he reminds Killua of one faculty member in particular.

“Killua,” he replies, eyebrow risen. “Are you… Wing’s protégé, by chance?”

Zushi blinks and nods, eyes sparkling. “Y-Yeah! He’s been showing me the ropes ever since I transferred here! Oh, by the way, this bleacher has the best view of the game and I need to get some great shots for the yearbook. Can I sit here?” He then stumbles a bit, swallowing. “I promise I won’t be that loud. I just want to take pictures.”

Killua hesitates at first. But, there’s no harm in that, right? He seems friendly enough. “Sure.”

Zushi keeps his promise. He hardly talks to Killua about anything throughout the game, but his focus is like that of a hawk’s. The lens of his camera continuously zooms in and out, stretching like the snout of some deformed horse.

The buzzer goes off. Killua’s eyes dart to the gymnasium floor, and his heart leaps in his chest—for some reason—at the sight of one spiky-haired athlete in particular.

Gon Freecss has always looked the same, but he bears an intensity on the gym floor that betrays any of the childish sunniness he radiates during his tutoring sessions with Killua. His eyes are ferocious, burning like simmering pools of amber and scorched oil. His skin is slick with sweat, the prominent muscles of his arms and legs bulging with raw power. Killua can only imagine how many hours it would take to roll out the tight kinks in those muscles after hours of dribbling the ball and dashing across the court for days on end.

He holds his breath when Gon successfully maneuvers around two players on the opposing team, stretches and leaps up to the hoop and slams the ball through the net. The buzzer goes off. Students cheer even louder, and Killua can hardly distinguish which sound is which and what color is meant to be associated with what.

“Do you understand basketball?”

Zushi’s question snaps Killua’s train of thought. He turns to him, shrugging. “Kind of. Obviously you have to get the ball in the net.” He grins at Zushi’s owlish expression. “Chill out. Just pulling your leg. But, yeah, I kind of get the rules. Not all of them though.” _I’ve never come to a game here before._ He’s never been allowed to.

Being here, without Illumi or his mother breathing down his neck, feels oddly… liberating.

He suppresses the strange, indecipherable sensation of grinning. He’s not sure where the surge is coming from, but it certainly threatens to possess his train of thought, the twitching of his toes in his sneakers and the tight muscles in his back and shoulders.

Zushi’s elbow clocks him in the ribcage. He bristles and yelps. 

“Hey! What the—”

“H-He’s looking right at you!”

Killua blinks, and slowly turns back to the gym floor. He rolls his eyes, but his chest tightens just a bit at the familiar, amusingly broad grin Gon is casting in his direction, holding up his arm in an enthusiastic wave. His teammates attempt to drag him back to talking to their coach—Razor, Killua realizes with a brief nod of acknowledgement—but Gon seems bothered by this. His eyes glaze over and his smile falters, as if in apology, and he soon jogs off to join his teammates on the other side of the room.

“Yeah, I guess,” mutters Killua.

Zushi gawks at him. “Do you… are you friends w-with Gon Freecss?”

Killua sighs. “Acquaintances, really.” The word feels strange on his tongue, but he ignores the urge to correct himself. “I tutor him. Bisky Krueger slapped us together a couple months ago. Hasn’t become a recipe for disaster quite yet.”

Zushi splutters. “No way…”

Killua raises an eyebrow. “What’s the big deal?”

(And why is he feeling so oddly prideful of the fact?)

“I… well, he’s really popular. He’s—he’s like, the star of the basketball team! And you—”

He stops, clamps his mouth shut, and Killua finally notices the slipup.

His blood simmers, but he knows this isn’t the time to get angry. His fists bunch into his jeans and he shakes his head, snorting. “Figures.”

“N-No, wait, it’s not what you think—”

“So, because I’m Killua Zoldyck I can’t talk to people like Gon? Is that it?” He can feel his voice raising, raising, raising—all against his will, commanding the roaring of blood in his ears and the rapid pounding of his heart. Zushi’s face flushes and he lowers his camera, his fingers trembling around the extended lens.

“I-I didn’t know it was you until you said your name… I promise, it’s just a slip. I don’t… I don’t even know you. I’m sorry.”

Killua sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look. You don’t have to talk to me. I get it. You’re terrified to talk to a Zoldyck of all people. Just take your camera somewhere else if it makes you more _socially comfortable_.” The words taste like venom on his tongue, but he can hardly focus on what’s happening around him with the broiling memories and vicious images of his parents parading in a highlight reel through his mind.

The rest of the night, he can hardly see straight. The pop music during halftime fades in the background, and not once does he return Gon’s waves. 

* * *

“Hey, who was it that you were waving to during the game, bro?”

The clanging of closing lockers snap Gon out of his train of thought before the voice drags him to reality. He leans back from his locker, slipping on a gray sweatshirt. His muscles are hardly recovering the way they normally would—dashing and sprinting breathlessly arcoss the gymnasium felt more draining than normal. His spiked hair is damp and scruffy with water and the scent of cucumber shampoo, though he can hardly tell what anything smells like aside from gym socks and heated shower water in the locker rooms.

“Hey, earth to Freecss! You there?”

Gon blinks once more and grins sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Sorry.” He chuckles, slipping into a fresh pair of shorts. This pair is old and large enough to be Ging’s. Then again, they probably do belong to him, wherever that vagabond could be at this moment. “Um, what were you saying?”

His teammate scoffs. Standing a good foot taller than Gon, Asher Perretti remains one of the more prodigiously talented players on the team. His stamina is unbeatable and his quick-thinking strategies are usually on par with their own coach’s. Though, he hardly ever steps aside to talk to Gon Freecss about anything, really. They’ve hardly been on speaking terms aside from bumping fists in the hallway and occasionally grabbing drinks or milkshakes as a team. His relaxed brown locks, striking blue eyes and singular hoop earring instantly make him come off as some oddly muscular hipster, though Gon happens to know better.

“Wow, man, you must’ve hit your head or something. You’re never this zoned.” Asher grins toothily, slapping Gon’s back and laughing. “Seriously, though, you were really out of it during the game. Is something up?”

Gon shrugs. “Nope. Nothing’s up.” He puts his hands in his pockets, humming.

“You sure?” Asher crosses his arms.

Gon grins and presents a thumbs-up. Asher almost laughs at the gesture—typical of his teammate.

“Yep! Perfectly okay!”

His lips are pursed and his hands are shaking. He can feel his heart and stomach drop to his toes, as if they’re tugging back and forth in tugs-of-war. He pictures Killua, how distressed and uncomfortable he seemed during the game. How _striking_ he looked this evening, even though when Gon first spotted Killua their sophomore year in the school hallway he was breathless with how ethereal the other teenager appeared.

Outside of his uniform, even in that simple outfit, with his unique silver-pale tufts of hair and eyes—globes of stormy October seas and coral beds—Killua Zoldyck remains one of the most interesting people Gon has ever seen. He’s never been able to pinpoint why he finds himself so drawn to Killua’s appearance, from the faintest dusting of freckles on his oddly graceful nose, to the sharp collarbones and slender frame, to even his constant scowls and guffaws of sarcastic, bitter laughter at Gon’s mess-ups during homework assignments. He’s found that he enjoys it most when Killua laughs, when that startlingly attractive mask cracks to form an expression that the Zoldyck perceives to be forbidden.

He loves spending time with Killua. Probably even more than the other could even understand. Inviting him to watch him at the game strained him, made him unsure as to what the other would say. Buying Killua gigantic chocolate bars to bribe him to go was worth the effort.

Killua has been patient with him, and kind. Two words the fellow teenager never uses to describe himself. He usually associates with negative connotations, and always seems so frightened and tense when he mentions he has to leave because his brother is picking him up from school.

“ _Bro_ , seriously, what the fuck is going on with you?”

Gon shakes his head and shrugs. He doesn’t want to talk to Asher at the moment. “Nothing, Asher. Just thinking.”

He should talk to Killua. He should text him again. Ask him if he’s okay—

“Well, whoever you waved to must’ve taken your brain or something because you were not playing your best. As captain, I have a right to talk to my teammate about it.” Asher shrugs. “Seriously, just let me know what’s up. Is it a girl or something? Did she not show up?” His tone is mocking and his eyes flash with mirth, but there’s a tense thread there. A line Gon isn’t sure he should cross.

He closes his locker. He’s not ready to pick a fight tonight. Not with Asher. “I invited a friend to the game,” he says nonchalantly, “and he seemed… really uncomfortable. I’m just worried he didn’t have a good time.” _That I was a burden to him, or something._

He wants to be better friends with Killua. Or, something, at least.

Asher blinks. Slowly. “Huh. Okay.”

Gon nods. “Yep.”

“… I see.”

“Mm-hm.”

“… So, who was it?”

Gon slings his duffle bag over his shoulder and glances towards Asher. Something shifts in the air. It’s almost palpable. “Killua Zoldyck.” He grins crookedly, and almost bursts with pride. “He’s my tutor! We’ve become pretty good friends, actually.”

Asher snorts. “You’re joking, right? You’ve heard about that guy.”

Gon’s moment of happiness immediately dashes. He stares straight into Asher’s eyes, reading the seriousness behind those glimmering irises. “The rumors aren’t true, Asher.”

“Oh, and is that because you believe your _pretty new friend?”_ Asher shakes his head. “Gon, don’t always trust your instincts. That guy… from what I’ve heard, he’s bad news.”

Gon keys in on one particular detail, finding that none of the other words Asher had said to be interesting in any way whatsoever. “You think he’s pretty?”

Well, his companion certainly wouldn’t be wrong in that manner. He never missed the way students passed through the hallways and how some stares lingered longer than others on his silver-haired friend. Killua never once caught these glances, always lost in his own world through his headphones and crouching over his desk recalling every chemical formula and math problem he could think of jamming into his skull. He was so awe-inspiring with his disposition—how could someone be so intelligent and selfless and not realize his potential?

Anyone with eyes could see that Killua was attractive. They were simply wrong if they disagreed.

This doesn’t explain why Gon immediately feels a surge of newfound fire course through his veins, setting off an array of caution in his mind and body that stills his form against the locker. He stands tall, though still shorter than Asher, and he can’t help the grinding of his teeth and the clenching of his fists. The air has changed, once again, between them.

Asher opens his mouth, then closes it, snorting. “You heard me wrong.”

“Don’t talk about Killua,” says Gon, lowly, and Asher stills, as if never hearing this tone from his friend before.

“Gon—”

“ _Ever_ ,” growls Gon, his own jaw incredibly tense. “You don’t know who he is. So don’t just make assumptions.”

He’s gone before Asher can protest.

* * *

Killua nearly jumps at the sheer force of textbooks slamming onto their usual table. He leans back in his chair, his jacket removed from his shoulders and slouched over his chair. His long-sleeved button-up is slightly frumpy and rumpled from too many cycles in the washing machine, and he’d managed to gab his clothes and slip them on before grabbing too much attention from his overbearing parents.

“Good morning to you too,” says Killua, rubbing away the sleep in his eyes. Gon sits down across from him and flashes an apologetic smile.

“Eh, sorry.” He shrugs. “It’s a beautiful day, Killua! We should study outside—”

“Gon, the last time we did that, you dragged me to the zoo and we literally never got anything done. I had to turn in my science project half-finished. _Half. Finished_.” He rolls his eyes, tapping his pen against his current mile-high stack of papers. “Well, my parents probably care more than I do, anyway.”

Gon tilts his head, observing him. Killua shifts beneath the stare, but decides not to question it. “Are you okay?”

Now, that question catches him off-guard. His tutor sets aside his pen, picks up his papers, and readjusts them to form straight lines on all sides. It’s usually the best form of distraction from Gon’s nonsensical questions or when he becomes as off-track as any toddler chasing after a butterfly.

“Yeah.”

He’s not sure how to respond to that. Should he say anything about how uncomfortable he was at the game? Why did Gon even ask him to go? It wasn’t like he knew that much about basketball. Sure, he enjoyed watching his friend succeed in scoring points for their school and smiling as if the thrill of competition was what truly drove him to his limits. But, his sour encounter with Zushi, and being reminded of exactly where he stood socially on school grounds, was a bitter reminder of why he never bothered attending social events.

“Huh.” Gon frowns. “Because, you seemed really upset at the game.”

Again, Killua’s not sure how to respond to that. “Um.” _Idiot, say something! Anything!_

“Killua.”

“Huh?” Killua’s not used to losing his composure. It’s starting to crack, and they haven’t even opened up their books to look at the first problem—

“Do people say mean things to you? You know, from our school?”

Killua blinks and chuckles, rolling his eyes. “Is that what you’re worried about? Jesus, Freecss.” He shrugs. “Sure, people talk. My family doesn’t have the best reputation, so of course I’ll be the prime target for insults and whatnot. I honestly don’t give two shits.” He rolls his eyes. “There are bigger issues I need to focus on. I don’t care about what people think of me.”

The weight behind his words almost betray his truths.

Gon’s eyes are narrowed. Unblinking. Completely, one hundred percent focused. Killua has never been scrutinized with a glare that intense.

“Why?”

Killua almost laughs. Really, it startles him how oblivious Gon can be at times. “Why wouldn’t they? You know who my family is, Gon—”

“But, you’re _Killua_ ,” says Gon, and steam practically propels out of his ears with the clear frustration mounting on his shoulders. Killua blinks, utterly baffled. “You’re not just _a Zoldyck_. You’re not… you’re not your brothers, or your parents. You don’t talk about them a lot but I know that they can’t be that great if they scare you.”

Killua stiffens, and holds back the strongest wince of his life; it would be enough to confirm Gon’s suspicions.

“You’re Killua. You’re amazing!” He shakes his head.

Killua sputters. “G-Gon! Idiot, you can’t stay stuff like that—”

“Why not? Because they’re true?”

“No! Because they’re _embarrassing_ —”

“Why is it embarrassing?”

“Because it’s not true and you’re being _too loud you dumbass_ —”

Gon then reaches across the table. Snatches Killua’s hand. He’s so close Killua can see the striking layers of gold and green and hazel and gold and cinnamon in those startling eyes. Those circlets of contradictory shades and levels of fire and forest.

Killua’s pen clatters to the floor.

Gon slowly brings his other hand to Killua’s, enclosing around his palm. In that instant, he recognizes the bumps, the callouses engraved into his friend’s palms, showering his bony hands in a bowl of heat. It’s startling and sends shivers up and down his spine. He can hardly register the proximity between them without flushing.

_What the—_

“Who, Killua?” Gon asks. The grip he has on Killua’s hand lessens. There’s tenderness there, something true and soft. Killua swallows. His tongue is dry. Rough as sandpaper. “Who insulted you?”

“Gon,” says Killua, his free hand gripping the table so tightly his knuckles blanche. “Let go. Seriously. You’re too close.”

Gon blinks, clearly confused. “Huh? But, how come?”

“Just, seriously, Gon, let go.”

His friend complies, and after both teenagers are back on opposite sides of the table, Killua can hardly smooth out the new crinkles in his sleeves and collar. He glances around him, exhales shakily, and turns back to Gon with a risen eyebrow.

“The hell was that all about?”

Gon scowls. “Aw, c’mon, Killua! I want to help.”

“You can help by getting out your geometry homework.”

“But _Killua_ —”

“Gon, if we don’t have this crap complete by the next time we have to check in with Old Hag Krueger, we’re _both_ getting our asses kicked.” Gon’s face turns effectively white at the thought, and his tutor smirks in utter victory. “Good. Now, get that out. We can work on it, then.”

Through the remainder of the hour they have together, Killua struggles to suppress the anxious bobbing in his knee, and the tingling sensation jolting through his now-cold hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE thank you to all the comments, kudos, etc. for the first chapter of Part 1 of The Afterschool Library Chronicle! Much appreciated! Thank you so much everyone! Hope you enjoyed this second chapter! 
> 
> Part 2 will be up soon!
> 
> Before anyone asks... yes, Asher will continue to show up. Hehehehehe.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know what this is. 
> 
> Did you like it? I hope you did. It was therapeutic. Love these two. 
> 
> Until next time!


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